


Rise

by Niullum



Series: Wingfic AU [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Add a little bit of ✨angst✨, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because that's Jason life (apparently), Gen, Good Parent Talia al Ghul, Hurt/Comfort, Past Talia al Ghul/Bruce Wayne, Talia and Dami Appears on Chap. 2, Temporary Character Death, Wingfic, no beta we die like robins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niullum/pseuds/Niullum
Summary: Jason Todd is born with wings in a place that leaves a lot to be desired.
Relationships: (Future) Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd, Catherine Todd & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Series: Wingfic AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873651
Comments: 11
Kudos: 109





	Rise

**Author's Note:**

> Me writing a new story instead of updating my +12 wips? More likely than you think. 
> 
> Inspired by a convo I had with a friend about what type of wings the batfamily would have and two months later it still lives in my head rent-free.

Unlike 99.99% of the human population, Jason Todd is born with wings attached to his back. He’s born screeching, flapping the two minuscule appendages with force, and scaring the whole medical team who are in charge of the screening test.

But it isn’t the wings that catch them off guard. It’s the brown plumage to be more exact, a strange color for winged people. So much that in all the history there have been only four people born that way.

People who the Todd's have no connection or links to.

It baffles the doctors and with a substantial reason; the birth of a winged person in a family of humans is rare. Soon enough they declare it some sort of __mutation.__ Or at least that is the only thing that sticks through Catherine’s brain once they discharge her from the hospital.

And for the first time—while she walks with Willis by her side into the cold streets of Gotham—in many years Jason’s mother dreams about a better future. Not for her since she _knows_ there’s no choice or hope for her anyway but for her _son, su hijito,_ because if there’s one she thinks she knows well is that Gotham values winged people.

They’re _cherished._

_Protected._

_Treasured._

_(It won’t take long for those dreams to shatter)_

* * *

“Have a good day ma’am,” the mailman (who she should learn his name by now considering how frequent he visits) says, tipping his hat and leaving Catherine with a letter in her possession.

The perfectly and well-faked smile disappears as soon as she shuts the door. She locks it and sighs. The letter has a familiar stamp of the bank attached to it. Catherine chews on her lips, counts to three, and opens the envelope with a resigned motion. Her grip almost falters when she reads the content. Another warning. Another bill to be paid in… Her eyes briefly avert to the calendar, all while ignoring the small pile of bills laying in the room's corner.

_Seven more days._

Something like despair forms in her stomach, but she _refuses_ to let it show. Crime Alley has taught her that repression is her best friend and being vulnerable only attracts vultures. She puts the paper into one of her pockets and keeps tidying the house.

Except that her mind is her biggest enemy, and she stops fifteen minutes later with her broom in hand.

The words “ _seize personal property”_ shouldn’t scare her anymore, considering the lack of things they have in their small apartment, but there’s still that sense of fear that goes through her every time they have to deal with this sort of thing.

She’s… not _scared,_ but preoccupied.

“Where are you Willis,” she mutters under her breath, and she wishes that just for once, Willis could pick his phone. But like all other things Catherine wants in life, she _knows_ it won’t make a difference.

With an intake of air and a shake of her head, Catherine dispels that thought away. Then she hears the soft words that go through her heart, _“mom?”_

Her heart _churns._

“Yes, sweetie?” She says two steps away from reaching the kitchen. She puts the broom, dusts her apron. It's one of the few days they’re alone, where Jason is free to speak and asks whatever his curious mind comes up with.

In peace, if she can add.

“I have a question,” says Jason, rocking back and forward on the heel of his feet. His wings spread as he opens his arms. “What do you think my wings will look like?”

She stands up and places one hand on her waist. The other one goes up to her chin, and she hums. Then crouches down at the small winged boy that’s her son. Her blessing, su _milagro_ , her _everything._

“Oh, Jason, _cariño,_ ” she says, cupping his face. Her next words are honest, made out with all the love a mother can have towards her son, “I think they’ll be _beautiful, mijo.”_

* * *

Jason grows up in a dysfunctional family with a semi-absent father who does organized crime and a caring mother who tries her best while surviving in the worst part of Gotham. He gets accustomed to hearing stray bullets near his home, running past beggars on the streets and sirens. His mom teaches how to __camouflage__ and not catch the people’s attention _(they’re dangerous,_ she whispers, _you never know their intentions)_ and everything she has learned.

_(And other things, Catherine’s not proud of)_

Catherine protects him as much as possible and does whatever it takes for him to live his childhood with all the limitations of living in Crime Alley.

He grows up shielded from the cruelty this city withholds, so focused on his own world and whatever kids like their age care for that he doesn’t notice his parents yelling each time his dad comes up. How his mother ends up with a black eye after a fight or the smell of drugs in his apartment.

The only thing Jason knows is that they fight __too__ much.

He’s naïve and young, prone to believing the first thing an adult says to him. That’s how he learns that the sky is _blue_ and that _one shouldn’t talk to strangers _.__ That school is important and that his wings are _precious._

_(No, they’re ****not** ** )_

* * *

Jason’s innocence is shattered when he molts at the shortage of nine-years-old. An unusual age to molt, but like many other things in life, Jason’s an outlier. His grades, his nature, and his personality are a testament to that.

Except his feathers come out… _wrong_. Unlike other winged people... Jason’s wings are-

 _“Unique baby,”_ Catherine settles for while she hesitantly presses a cold compress to his son’s back in her best attempts to soothe the hurt. Jason whimpers against the contact. His eyes are full of tears and after two hours of constant sobbing, the only testament of his discomfort is the occasional hiccup.

“They’re beautiful,” she insists, hoping that the words will stick, but it only brings another fresh wave of tears to his son’s eyes. Catherine shuts her eyes, seeing her son’s suffering, and clenches one hand at how unjust this whole thing is.

No one told them molting would be painful. Catherine had to wake up with his son’s muffled sob and the faint cries of _'it hurt'._ She’s completely lost on how to proceed, how to _fix_ , how to _solve_ Jason’s agony.

Once again, Catherine feels hopeless. And _oh _,__ how that feeling stings. Another thing to add to her failure list.

_Her career_

_Her life._

_Her marriage._

“They’re gross,” Jason sobs out, one of his small hands reaching out to his back, where the first few feathers are appearing, covered in caked blood. “Mom, take them out. Take _them out _.__ ”

She catches his hand before he can rip a feather out.

“Jason, _amor _,__ ” Catherine starts patiently. “I can’t.”

_No puedo bebe._

“Mom, I don’t-I don’t,” he stutters, and the words rise until it ends up in a shout. “I don’t want them anymore!”

 _“Cariño_ ,” She wishes she could offer other things than just _words_. Everyone knows that _words_ are meaningless. But she’s right, in a way. While Jason’s wings are not _aesthetically pleasing_ to Catherine’s eyes, they have their own special charm. They’re _huge,_ being perhaps the biggest Catherine has had the luck to see in her life in a winged child, and it’s only Jason's _first_ molting.

Her boy is _special._

That night Catherine goes on her knees and prays. _Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo._ She prays and prays to whatever deity out there that exists—she doesn’t believe; she stopped believing after the bruises and marks Willis left on her skin, but the image of her son crying hasn’t stopped haunting her—that can help them.

Three days later she wakes up to the sound of his son crying and hidden under the closet who’s covering both of his ears while repeating in this broken voice to _please make it stop._ That’s when they realize it isn’t the _feathers _,__ the only thing that changes during molting.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for the rumors to spread. ‘ _There’s a freak living among us _’ they__ whisper behind their back, crowded like __cockroaches__ at the sight of her son's feathers, but Catherine pays it no mind. She walks with her head high with her son beside her.

Her boy is special, and Catherine?

Catherine Todd is stubborn. All the people who had the pleasure to meet her would say the same. She works through all types of adversaries that stand in her way.Her boy is not an exception. After that traumatizing night, she picks the first book from the library and learns. How to differentiate which feather one should __never__ pluck (the big and stiff pointed feathers and the rounded ones since they are attached to the __bone)__ , which ones they should align.

Catherine takes whatever random jobs she finds and takes him out with whatever money she manages to getaway with. She works, and __pushes__ , and doesn’t stop even when her body fails her. Even when feeling something in her throat that soon transforms into a cough. But she pays it to mind.

Until she coughs up __blood__.

* * *

Life on the streets is different. Harsher. Crueler. The first couple of months are the hardest for him, once Jason gathered enough courage to flee his apartment. He spends the next couple of months trying to survive, scavenging through trash cans, bins, and whatever place that can help him.

It’s a bit of a trial and error for Jason to get a hang of it at first. He’s so focused on surviving he stops caring for the wings and soon enough they lose their shine. He keeps them folded and hidden under whatever jacket he can find. Their enormous size is inconvenient, especially when it comes to laying low.

He doesn’t hear from Willis. As far as Jason knows, Willis is __dead__. But if there’s one thing Catherine has taught him well is that he’ll survive. He’s a true-born Gothamite.

Crime Alley __sings__ in his blood.

_(Months later, Jason stumbles into Bruce.)_

* * *

The idea that Bruce Wayne, billionaire, philanthropist, owner of Wayne enterprises (and secretly Batman) is interested in adopting him is _hilarious._ He has to pinch himself many times until he’s handed the papers personally.

Jason can admit it sometimes feels like some sort of dream. _Too good to be true._ A roof, two caretakers, three meals a day and what’s closest to the word family. He has lost count of the number of times he thinks one day he’ll wake up and be right back in the slums.

_(And if this is a dream, he never wants to wake up)_

“Jason,” a tired-dad-like voice breaks the silence, making Jason crack up with a smile. He glances down, a pun on the tip of his tongue when he catches sight of Bruce standing, soaked from heads to toes.

“Can you come down now?”

“I can’t B’ ,” Jason says with a grin. “Five more minutes.”

There’s something about heights that attracts him, the need to perch on the tallest building or place and sit there for hours. He can spend _hours_ there watching passengers pass by. Bruce blames it on the costume and Alfred on his recent molting, that replaced his iris brown pointed feathers to iris yellow rounded and shorter ones.

Except there’s something deep inside Jason that tells him it doesn’t have to do with that.

* * *

“Hello there,” a voice speaks, startling Jason from his new perching spot. It’s dark and late, almost three A.M if his memory serves him well. A snarl comes out of his mouth, earning a chuckle from the stranger.

He’s ready to bite the stranger’s stretched hand when the other speaks, “you’re Bruce’s newest ward?”

Like many things in life, it catches Jason off guard. The word _ward_ rings with so much force into his skull he loses his balance because it’s not Batman, but _Bruce._

_Bruce._

_****Bru-** ** _

_****Ce** **.** ** _

“How, how did you-how do you _know?_ ” he stutters out, his eyes widening in shock while one hand goes for his communicator. He must _warn_ Bruce-

A chuckle.

“You’re quite smaller than I imagine,” The stranger’s hand goes for his hair and ruffles it, making Jason gawk. “Oh, where are my manners? I forgot to introduce myself,” a radiant smile that makes Jason fluster.

“I’m Dick Grayson,” a pause as the other adds, flaunting his dark coloring black and silvery blue feathers in greeting.

He points at himself; the smile forming into a grin.

“Also-”

“You’re _Nightwing,_ ” Jason finishes for him in awe. “ _Holy shit.”_

* * *

“Open.”

He opened his wings on display.

“Is this okay?” Jason asks as Alfred circles around him with a sharp eye. He feels uncomfortable being stared at the one thing he’s most self-conscious about. The urge to fold them back is _strong_ as the habit is already ingrained in his brain.

His muscle locked when he feels a hand inches away from the rounded feathers. A shiver runs down his spine and he grimaces. After dinner Alfred had kindly ushered him to the bathroom once the elderly man caught sight of the state of his feathers.

“May I ask a question Master Jason?” Alfred starts, coaxing his hands into a bottle of oil. The word _wing oil_ on the bottle is the only hint he needs to know what’s coming. He winces. He’s not looking forward to this.

“I don’t remember,” Jason replies, softly. “Whatcha gonna’ do?”

Alfred hums begins

”Fix your wings,” a shiver “We call this _preening_.”

A pause.

“ _Allopreening_ , to be more precise.”

* * *

“Don’t,” Jason hisses out.

“Don’t what?” Bruce asks back, arching an eyebrow. Looking (quite amused if he can add) at the scene in front of him playing with interest.

“Not a single word,” Jason says and points at Bruce with his index finger, looking as threateningly as possible. To his endless disappointment, Bruce just huffs and shakes his head.

“Dick why are you taking so long- _Ow!_ ”

“Sorry,” Dick mumbles apologetically before plucking another broken blood feather. ” In my defense, I thought B’ had taught you how to land.”

“Asshole,” Jason mumbles under his breath and after another groan, he snaps, “could you be more careful- _ow _!”__

* * *

Jason dies three years later in a warehouse. His last breath is staring at the countdown timer wishing for—Alfred or even Bruce, who he hasn’t spoken to in days after fleeing home—someone to save him

_(He can’t hate her for her betrayal. He understands. He wants to understand, even if it hurts thinking he was another peon in their gamr. She loves him; she said so, and Jason wants to ****believe,** ** he ****has** ** to believe-) _

Jason dies with unfulfilled dreams, and with his wings broken. That’s how Bruce finds him much later. The image of his humerus sticking out of his flesh is something that will haunt Bruce for the next couple of years.

* * *

When he regains consciousness it’s dark and cold and humid. He gasps and tries to stand up, but there are arms holding him back. The potent smell of incense makes his eyes water.

It hurts to even breathe.

He wants to go _home._

_Home with Bruce. Home with Alfred. Home with Dick._

_Homehomehome_

_“Rise,”_ he hears someone whisper to him. It’s soft, almost soothing. A hand touches his forehead. “I said _rise,_ boy.”

And so Jason does.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you like this, please let me know!


End file.
